


Not a Falalalala Out of Place

by deHavilland



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deHavilland/pseuds/deHavilland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out angels don’t have the best reaction to Djinn poison. Worse – Castiel may have seen one too many Christmas specials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Falalalala Out of Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MollyC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/gifts).



Dean drags a finger through the layer of fake snow sprinkled carefully across the mantle. Some of it’s actual flakes of soap suds or whatever it is Castiel used in his ridiculous decorating spree, the rest is 100% cotton batting built up like drifts along the porcelain Thomas Kinkade Christmas Village collection. Each house is artfully angled to create a cityscape with real working lights that glows warmly over the fireplace. 

He’s never seen anything so grotesquely stupid in his entire life.

Except for maybe the way his name’s been glitter-inked onto the top fold of the stocking that’s hanging just below the charming little village set. That doesn’t look like Castiel’s handwriting. He’s seen the angel’s chicken scratch and it’s worse than his own, but that’s probably what you get when you spend millennia without ever bothering to pick up a pencil. 

... but then again, maybe this Castiel has learned to write his letters properly. Maybe this one’s first language is actually English and not Enochian. And maybe all of this crap means something more than that he’s seen a few too many Christmas specials on the boob tube. 

Maybe.

But Dean doesn’t really think so.

The Castiel in question is currently hanging colorful baubles on the Christmas tree. Apparently it’s tradition to trim the tree last, once all the nutcrackers and garlands have been set in place around the rest of the house. Dean’s not sure who exactly that particular tradition is supposed to belong to, because it’s certainly not theirs, but he doesn’t argue with Cas on what’s a pretty innocuous point. If he wants to trim the tree last, well, by all means. It really isn’t any skin off of Dean’s back. Not until Sam gets his butt over here with some kind of explanation as to fixing what the hell’s going on, anyway. 

“Cas, you want a beer?”

The angel – only he’s not really an angel right now, is he? – looks up at him, having set one of the large red bulbs in place. There’s something bright in his eyes and in it, Dean recognizes that his friend’s not especially interested in booze right now. Or anything other than pouring every ounce of energy in his body into creating some kind of TV special Christmas. 

And that’s fine. More for him. 

He takes another swig from the bottle he’s nursing himself – his third – and sets his feet on the coffee table in front of him, taking care to push the Santa-themed candle holders out of the way with his toe. 

It’s almost refreshing, all this decking of the halls crap. New, anyway. Dean doesn’t think even Mom had quite this much Christmas spirit. 

When Castiel finally sets the last ornament in the box on the tree, he takes a step back, eyes trailing to the only thing left. Dean watches him, conscious of the funny little look that crosses Cas’ face as he sidesteps around the coffee table and the angel tree-topper sitting on it. He shifts to make room for him on the couch. 

“This mean you’re done?” He nods at the little wooden angel, doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that it kind of looks like Cas. “’Cause I think you’re forgetting something.” 

Castiel keeps his eyes cast firmly on the tree which, angel on top or not, looks pretty damn good. Dean doesn’t exactly consider himself a connoisseur of Christmas tradition and there aren’t too many trees in his past to compare to, but he’s pretty sure this one beats out anything Dad might have made out of beer cans way back when. “Leave it, Dean.”

He knows. Cas fucking knows.

“Not much of a tree without something on – ”

“Please.” There’s something so plaintive about the way he says it and then turns to look at him that roots Dean to the spot. And how sad is that, really? Because he remembers what it’s like to be hopped up on Djinn poison. And while yeah, maybe his perfect world had its downsides, but there was a whole lot more going on with it than this. 

Sad. That’s definitely the word. 

That Castiel could be drugged up on the sweetest alternate reality he could ever possibly hope to experience and he’s wasting it imagining Christmas with Dean Winchester. 

It would be flattering if it wasn’t so pathetic. 

Dean shoots a glance down at his phone, half hoping for a text message from Sam. Something that’s going to get them out of this sooner rather than later, but their cell phone carrier must not support cross-reality texting. 

Castiel rises to his feet and Dean lifts his head, following the movement as the angel crosses the room to turn out the lights, leaving only the glow of the village on the mantle and, after a moment, the strings of lights on the tree.

From the couch, Dean whistles appreciatively. “Looks good, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, finding his way back to the couch in the darkness and settling in next to Dean once more. “Thank you.”

Dean doesn’t point out that now that he’s got a better view of the finished product that the village on the mantle is practically a screen grab from this year’s Dr. Sexy Christmas special. They’d watched that only a couple of days ago; on a crappy black and white TV set in a dingy, nowheresville motel. And the tree? Pulled right out of It’s A Wonderful Life, icicles and tinsel and all – though it’s been updated into color based on Castiel’s own assumption of what these things should look like. Which does a pretty good job of explaining why the tinsel’s purple and the bulbs are an eye-searing combination of red, yellow and blue. 

Plagiarism at its finest. He should have known that nothing in Castiel’s Djinn-induced dream wouldn’t have some sort of source. It’s not like Cas has any actual Christmas memories to draw off of. 

“So what happens now? We wait for Santa Claus to bring us some toys?”

Even in the darkness, Castiel is resolutely not looking at him.

“Cas, you gotta know we can’t stay here forever.”

“Dean – ”

“Because I don’t want to – ” He’s silenced suddenly by a pair of lips against his own. He stiffens, muscles going tense for a moment as his brain catches up with the fact that Castiel’s fingers are fisted in the folds of his jacket, his mouth clamped roughly against Dean’s own. He’s no stranger to desperate, needy kisses and this is definitely one of them. But there’s an innocence to the way Cas keeps his lips pressed firmly together, his jaw locked.

Dean’s no stranger in getting his partners to loosen up, either. 

After a moment, Cas pulls back, hands falling away from Dean’s coat and the hunter gives him a moment to collect himself before continuing on as if the kiss had never even happened.

“Because I don’t want to get stuck here either. You sucked me into the dream as soon as I got within two feet of you, Cas.” He drops a hand down onto the angel’s knee, not quite letting him pull as far away as he wants to. “And you look like crap, dude. You’re just gonna get worse the longer we stay here. And this, it’s not real, Cas.”

The bulbs on the tree flicker, the houses lining the mantle rocking dangerously on their perch and then suddenly the lights are back on. Seems like Cas maintained a little of his mojo after all. 

“I’m aware, Dean. Very much so.” His hands are curled tight into white-knuckled fists and Dean almost feels sorry for just how hard he’s trying to keep himself under control here. He wouldn’t mind, honestly, if one of those stupid porcelain houses came crashing down to shatter on the floor. 

“You don’t need any of this crap. It’s just – it’s crap. Sam and I’ve been doing Christmas for years without any of it. Doesn’t bother us any.” Alright, shallow argument, maybe. There have been years where they’d celebrated a little more than others - though never quite this much. Castiel hasn’t even even had the brief exchange of gifts and the overindulging in well-mixed eggnog that they’ve been enjoying for years. 

Though that’s not exactly the kind of thing you’d expect an angel to be worried about. But what can you do? He clearly watches way too much TV. 

... Unless, of course, Dean’s missing something here. 

“We’ll do something like this for Christmas when you wake yourself up, Cas, I promise.” 

Outside the living room’s picture window, snow’s starting to fall. It’s postcard perfect, just like everything else in this world that Castiel’s dreamed up for himself, blowing lightly, illuminated by the street lamp in front of the house. Dean’s not sure where exactly Castiel got this scenario from, the perfect, untarnished moment of domesticity – oh, hell.

Dean swallows and looks down at the hand Cas has placed over his own, still resting on the angel’s knee.

“Yeah, Cas. We can do something about that, too.” He leans in to initiate the kiss himself this time as the world around them shifts and dissolves back into the empty, abandoned gas station that they’d found the angel in initially.


End file.
